Moment of Doubt
by Exilo
Summary: Two CIA sponsored "code-breakers" are hired to extract information from a suspected spy. The only problem is, they may have the wrong person. One shot, short fic. R&R please. Not a slash fic in any way.


_**Moment of Doubt**_

Harris needed a smoke. He missed the door knob on the first try. On the second, he tore his way out of the room and into the hallway. His hand was shaking as he struck the box of cigarettes, finally getting one of the cigarettes and biting it between his teeth. He struck his lighter several times, each time failing to achieve the needed spark. Only when Brooklyn took his hand and aided him in sparking the lighter did the flame finally come up. Harris leaned his head forward, burning the tip of his cigarette.

"You alright?" Brooklyn asked.

Harris took a deep Breath. "Just…just a bit shaky."

"I can do this myself."

"I'm fine," Harris said quickly. "Just…How long has it been?"

"Three months, about. The bitch it tough. Might be high level KGB actually. Definitely a spy."

"…Because she hasn't admitted to being a spy yet?" Harris took a deep breath of his cigarette. "You ever wonder if we're wrong?"

"I don't get paid to wonder, H. I get paid to snap people like dried twigs. That's what you get paid for too."

"I get paid…you get paid to break spies." Another long breath. "What if she's not a spy?"

"We wouldn't be breaking her if she weren't."

Harris touched his head.

"H," Brooklyn said. "She's one of twenty four. We know she's a sleeper agent; one of twenty four. And she knows who those other twenty three are. We have got to find out who those twenty three others are."

"What makes her a sleeper?" Harris asked lowly. "Cause her parents were Russian? Cause she only emigrated here when she was two? For fuck's sake, I moved here when I was seventeen! Why aren't I in that chair?"

"Because you're not a spy."

There was a vein in Harris's head that looked ready to pop. He turned and punched the dry wall, making a hole. The entire ninth floor of this building had been rented. It was brightly lit, painted egg shell white. Starkly contrasted by the "dungeon". The dungeon was where Ayn "Annie" Raikov had been held these past months, after she was delivered to Harris and Brooklyn, sedated. The dungeon had no windows. The walls were painted a mucky brown. The only light was a lone hanging bulb that flickered too much to not be an intentional malfunction. The only furniture was a steel chair of medieval design, with shackles at the legs and arm rests.

Annie lifted her head when the door opened and Brooklyn came in. "Are you willing to talk yet, Carmine?"

Annie's eyes quivered.

"No puppy dog eyes, Carmine. They're not going to work on me."

"I'm not…" Annie started. "My name… My name is Ayn Raikov. God, please, I don't know…" Brooklyn took a step forward, and Ayn screamed, wiggling and whimpering weakly in her chair. "I don't know!" she cried. "I don't know anything. Please god. Please god, let me go. Please. God let me see the sun. Let me stand, god, please… Please…"

After the second month, Brooklyn had taken away the bathroom breaks. Annie had been forced to sit in the chair, as filth continued to spread beneath her. The stench was awful. Harris actually mused there was enough methane in the room that his cigarette might blow them all sky high. He took a step back, taking another breath of his cigarette. Brooklyn walked around behind the woman, and Harris' jaw went tight, almost biting through the cigarette. For a moment, he thought Brooklyn was going to execute her, but instead he undid the bindings. "Up," he said, and she hit the filthy ground when he pushed her out of the chair. Harris sighed, and picked her up under one arm. She was small and light and starved. He could probably carry her with one hand. "Clean her up," Brooklyn said. "I'll clean up here."

Harris sighed yet again, and aided the woman in walking down the hallway to the bathroom. There was a trail of brown down the white carpet of the floor. They'd need to clean that too.

"Why are you doing this?" Annie whimpered.

Harris said nothing. He opened the door to the bathroom. Annie didn't move. Harris sighed and helped her to walk inside. "Can you take off your clothes?"

Annie tried, slowly, carefully, lifting her shirt over her head. Harris aided her in undoing her pants, then to step out of them. Harris had to turn his head as the odor grew more intense sharply. Between them, he and Brooklyn spent around six hours a day in the room. They had been attempting an isolation strategy. He spent only a fourth of the day in that room, and rarely the six hours were straight. This woman had spent weeks in there.

"Why are you doing this?" she said again.

They had set up a decontamination shower for their own use, as well as for Annie at first. She sighed, reached up, and pulled the handle. She cried under the water, openly. Harris had to stop the water for her before she would drown under there. He wrapped her in a towel and brought her into a new room. This one was open and bright. Isolation wasn't working, so Brooklyn would switch tactics.

Harris sat her in one of the chairs. Brooklyn came in, having changed his clothes. Now he had a baby blue collar shirt, loose black tie, and his gun hanging from a holster under his left arm. The security latch was undone. Harris sighed. So that was his plan?

"Enjoy the cold water, Carmine?"

"My name is Ayn…"

"Your name is Alexandra Carmine. You were born February 4, 1952, daughter of a prominent party member."

"My name is Ayn Raikov…Please god that's who I am."

"Just tell me what you know Carmine, we can protect you. Start a new life in the west. Eat apple pie and drink beer. We know how they brainwash you as little kids. How they change your thoughts till you're all screwed up. Just tell us what you know, we can protect you."

Annie slapped him. It was a comical act of offense, but Brooklyn sold it and stumbled back. Annie reached forward and took the gun out of its holster. She stumbled back off the chair. She lifted the gun, shaking, eyes blinking and closing before struggling to stay open. "Get back!" she shouted. "Get away from me! Both of you! I…I'll shoot."

Harris sighed and walked forward. Annie's hand shook fiercely. Harris squatted before her, took the pistol, and stood, walking out of the room. Brooklyn followed.

"She's not a spy," Harris said.

"Like hell she's not."

Harris looked over the pistol, before handing it back to Brooklyn. "She's not a spy."

"That was just an act. She knew the pistol was empty."

"God damn it, when are you going to get your head out of your ass?"

"When are you? She flashes some puppy dog eyes and you melt. She could probably see how much of a pussy you are has been playing you this whole time." Brooklyn replaced the clip in his pistol. "Fuck it. Bitch won't break."

"She can't tell us intel she doesn't know."

"Even if that's true, you know the routine."

"No, we've never had the wrong guy." Harris put a hand on his pistol.

"I'm faster than you, H."

"We fucked up...they fucked up…someone fucked up. But that woman isn't a spy."

Brooklyn sighed. "Don't do this, H."

The moment the barrel of Harris's pistol lifted above the rim of the holster, Brooklyn turned and shot three bullets into Harris's chest. He sighed sadly, but he had a job to do, and stepped into the room. The towel that had been given to Annie was suddenly thrown into his face. It was a momentary distraction, but Brooklyn felt his grip on the pistol lost. A moment later, he had been shot in the head.

The woman, limping slightly, stepped over the corpse and into the hall. Harris spat blood. Brooklyn, who had one countless national shooting competitions, had missed his heart with all three bullets. Still, he could not move, and he was steadily bleeding out. The woman, nude, came over him. The puppy dog eyes, the quivering lip, replaced with a sharp glare and a slim smile.

"When I said my name was Ayn Raikov?" She lifted the pistol. Her hand didn't shake this time. "Ya sovral."

The trigger was pulled.


End file.
